


Minor Indiscretions

by WerewolvesAreReal



Category: Temeraire - Naomi Novik
Genre: Humor, I don't know what to tag this, M/M, Series Spoilers, all books
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-27 00:06:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6261253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WerewolvesAreReal/pseuds/WerewolvesAreReal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Oh!” Temeraire perks up. “Are we talking about how Napoleon likes to kiss you?”<br/>Laurence closes his eyes in mortification.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Minor Indiscretions

**1808, London, England**

The first time Laurence comes close to revealing what has happened he is in the streets of London and in the most unlikely situation imaginable. Here, surrounded by oblivious French soldiers and enemy dragons flying overhead, he touches Tharkay's arm as a thought enters his mind.

“He might have Granby in Kensington Palace.”

Laurence recognizes the very likelihood of this idea even as he says it; Tharkay, once faced with the notion, is clearly more dubious. “It would be more convenient for, us, certainly,” is his scoffing reply.

But the idea will not be silenced. Somewhere Granby is a captive, and Laurence cannot risk his safety for the sake of his own cowardice. He fumbles for an explanation. “It sounds like folly, I know. But if I might be pardoned for forming an opinion on the grounds of one meeting, I would say that Bonaparte is unreasonably fond of seduction -”

Tharkay looks at him and slowly tilts his head.

Laurence hurries on: “ - to the point that he likes to believe he has a chance of persuasion where rationally anyone would see there is none. He will never miss a chance for a grand gesture if he thinks he might coax Granby into service.”

Tharkay listens and for a moment says nothing. Laurence fears he has said too much.

Then the man just shrugs. “We may as well take the chance.”

Laurence relaxes.

But it seems to him, even as they lower their heads and pass a group of laughing French officers, that Tharkay is watching him just a bit too carefully for comfort.

* * *

 

**1807, Paris, France**

Laurence has tried to imagine the Nightmare of Europe many times, of course. Napoleon has a reputation for his short stature; some men call him the 'Ogre'. He has pictured a grotesque, stunted figure, a man shrouded in regal finery to impress his subjects, perhaps surrounded by imposing guards at all hours. This man – the man striding rapidly before his harried soldiers, quick, brisk - a man of average height in a plain green coat... This man takes him utterly aback. At first he does not even register who he is seeing.

Napoleon seizes him by the shoulders, his dark eyes keenly intent. He kisses Laurence on both cheeks.

“Your Majesty,” says Laurence faintly.

Without ceremony the Emperor takes him by the arm: “Come, walk with me.”

The Emperor is not conventionally attractive. His complexion is more sallow than pale, his features round and blunt. But even while their footsteps are swallowed in the vastness of the garden he does not falter, and he never seems small. He is a thousand miles tall when he turns and waves to his Imperial guards, and they melt away and vanish under the mute command.

Napoleon takes him around one of the pathways and through a square stand of trees. Pink and blue flowers bloom on the inside of the garden patch. “France owes you more than I can express,” he says. “I cannot thank you enough.”

“I do not ask for gratitude,” Laurence says. “Use the cure and distribute it freely; that is all we desire.”

“That we can do. But do you want nothing for yourself? I would be glad to have you remain as an officer of France; the Armée d'Le Aire would welcome you gladly.”

The thought is repulsive. “I am an officer of the king, Sir; they will do with me as they must for my crimes.”

“I can scarcely condemn your loyalty – indeed I admire it.” Napoleon stops walking, forcing Laurence to stop as well.

“But I wonder about your king – your admirals, your lords. Tell me why they deserve such loyalty. Answer me that. Answer me well and I will me satisfied.”

Laurence is unsettled. “I have sworn an oath,” he says.

“I have sworn many oaths, I have broken many oaths,” Napoleon says. “They are words, and little more. Honor is important but it cannot supersede everything; you agree or you would not stand before me today.”

Laurence looks away. “My duty is to England – it has always been to England.”

Napoleon stands very close to him; he grabs Laurence around the shoulder with an almost manic fervor. “And could you not be persuaded to give your vows to another? Is there nothing at all - “

There is a heavy breeze overhead, a sweeping sort of hum. Laurence reaches behind him and his hand catches on a tree. “Sir – Your Majesty – I must protest - “

With his other hand Napoleon reaches up and touches his cheek. “You would learn to love France,” he says earnestly. “I have learned to love her - “

Laurence tries to answer and fails utterly.

Then a black shadow falls overhead and lands beside them with a quiet thud. “Oh – I thought you were fighting perhaps,” says Temeraire's voice. He sounds slightly intrigued. “ - What are you doing, Laurence?”

Laurence stumbles away. Blood rushes to his face; he hastens to straighten his neckcloth. “Nothing, my dear - “

“I would not say that,” Napoleon says. And then, before Laurence can react, he is stepping forward and kissing him.

Laurence's sound of protest is swallowed and forgotten; he holds onto the Emperor more from shock than any other impulse. It should be no surprise that Napoleon kisses like he commands – he is firm, unyielding, pressing Laurence back until he is left half-dazed and drunk.

And then he steps back – sooner than might be preferred, and also not so soon that Laurence can justify not moving away. Napoleon looks unfairly unruffled.

“We will speak again,” he says; it sounds almost like a threat. “Think about what I said, dear Captain. You will always be welcome in France if you but give the word.”

Laurence watches him leave in a state of shock. When Napoleon has disappeared from sight he finally looks up. Temeraire is watching him with great fascination.

“Are you going to make an egg now?” he asks.

Laurence closes his eyes and slowly sits on the ground. “No, my dear,” he says weakly. “ - And pray never ask that question again.”

* * *

 

**1810, Cuzco**

No one is quite comfortable at the dinner except for Napoleon himself, who is of course half the source of the awkwardness. He sits easily between the English and Incan groups, talking presently to several men while the Sapa Inca eyes him speculatively from her place at the head of the table.

When he starts to shove aside plates and utensils, maneuvering tiny bits of fruit to stand-in as models, Laurence realizes he is discussing the famous battle at Austerlitz. He leans in reluctantly to hear despite himself.

When he looks up Napoleon is watching him. The Emperor smiles sharply.

Laurence glances away and takes a sip from his water to cover his lapse; when he looks again the man is waving his arms in broad gestures, utterly unconcerned.

“Gods, he has no shame,” Granby mutters from a seat away.

Laurence quite agrees.

He makes his escape as soon as it seems polite, but it seems he is not destined for a peaceful evening. De Guignes catches him outside the hall. “Captain,” he says. “If you would indulge me for a moment of your time – My Emperor has requested your presence if you are available.”

Laurence hesitates.

After an interval De Guignes withdraws a letter and hands it to him. “You have time to decide, of course,” he says kindly. Then he turns and exits.

Laurence looks down at the missive with resignation.

He goes to seek Napoleon without bothering to read it.

The Emperor is alone in the set of rooms assigned to him by the Incans. His guards let Laurence through immediately; once inside Napoleon views him without surprise. This somehow rankles.

“I have heard of your ill-treatment by the British crown,” Napoleon says without ceremony. He has stripped off his jacket and belt, his boots, and stands shamelessly. “I will not insult you by asking you to reconsider your decision from our last meeting.”

Yet here the Emperor pauses. Laurence is certain that he needs to only say the word and Napoleon will accept him as a French aviator, a traitor in every respect. The silence stretches on. Laurence, of course, says nothing.

After a moment Napoleon continues; if he is disappointed it does not show. “Nevertheless I am impressed. Even exiled, sentenced to ignominy, you thrive and show your superiority to the world. One must admire that.”

Laurence folds his hands behind his back. “Is there something you wished to discuss, Your Majesty?” he asks.

Napoleon beckons him closer. Turning, he withdraws a bottle of wine and two small glasses from a desk. “Must everything be about business?” he asks.

Laurence just regards him mutely.

But he accepts his glass. The wine is deeply red; it dries the throat as soon as it hits. Laurence eyes his half-finished drink a moment later and wishes rather for something stronger to steel himself for the conversation ahead.

“I have thought of you often on our campaigns,” Napoleon says. “ - You do not know how that galls me, that I cannot stop thinking of you.”

Laurence pauses mid-motion into another sip of wine. “I beg your pardon?” he says.

He almost anticipates the next action, but still somehow feels surprised when Napoleon steps forward and grips him around the shoulders. His glass falls from his hand. He does not notice.

The wine still lingers on their lips. The kiss tastes like fruit and dry smoke, like wisps of oak curling around their mouths. There is nothing gentle – just searing heat, insistence, need. Laurence inhales when the Emperor draws back to kiss over his neck, delivering sharp nips like he will steal the blood, the life, from his body. He shudders less from pleasure than the fact that he might allow it.

When Napoleon starts pushing him toward another door he goes without any resistance.

Two hours later Laurence walks into the space assigned to the aviators and heads straight for Temeraire; officers are lounging around the dragons throughout the clearing, some of them resting in their own tents. Emily Roland looks up as he passes and makes a shocked sound. “Captain!” she says.

Laurence winces and glances around. “A problem, Midwingman?” he asks stiffly.

“What happened to your coat, Sir?” she sounds scandalized.

He looks down. A splash of red wine stains the front of his uniform.

“Oh,” he says, very faintly. “I had not noticed...”

* * *

 

**1811, Brazil**

“I am not going to report you, Augustine,” says Laurence with great discomfort. “It would never occur to me - “

“And we are both excellent at keeping secrets,” says the conspicuous twenty-ton dragon at his side.

Captain Little looks between him and Granby with despair.

“Oh, hell,” says Granby. His face is very red and he is not quite meeting Laurence's eyes. “We just want to be sure, Will - “

“I give you my word.” And this does, at least, seem to afford Granby some ease; Little still appears hesitant. “I would not judge you,” he says earnestly, “Any business with Napoleon does not quite compare, but I assure you I do understand.”

“What does that Corsican have to do with it?” Granby asks.

“ - That is, nothing; pray forget I mentioned it.”

“Oh!” Temeraire perks up. “Are we talking about how Napoleon likes to kiss you?”

Laurence closes his eyes in mortification.

“...Yes, let's talk about that,” says Granby slowly. When Laurence looks the man's expression holds a mixture of horror and glee. Little, usually so unreadable, openly gawks.

If Laurence's face is as bright as it feels he may be able to flee and camouflage himself against Iskierka's scales. “I – it was only a few times?” he says feebly. Granby's grin widens. “ - I beg your pardon, I believe I must - “

“Oh, of course,” Granby says. His lips twitch.

Laurence pats his neckcloth and stumbles away uncertainly. With a glance at Temeraire he quits the area; behind him comes the unmistakable bellow of Granby's laughter.

At least, he thinks miserably, neither he nor Little will be afraid any longer.

* * *

 

**1812, China**

“What I do not understand,” Temeraire says one day, “Is why you kissed Napoleon when clearly you will never marry him.”

“Oh dear.” Laurence drops his quill on the half-finished letter in his lap and looks around quickly. Fortunately they seem to be quite alone; the Chinese dragons and soldiers always give Temeraire a wide berth, and even the rest of the aviators are situated a fair distance apart from where Temeraire and Laurence sit together.

“You have always said that marriage and children are the point of a relationship, but Granby tells me two men cannot marry - “ Laurence wonders with great foreboding just what sort of questions Temeraire has been asking Granby about ' _two men'_ \- “ - and Napoleon is our enemy, anyway.”

“My dear,” Laurence fumbles. “It is – it is not quite the same. For others – for some – bonds of affection can certainly exist without marriage when that institution is impractical. The Church may hold issue with such relationships, but that is a personal matter.”

“Are you very affectionate toward Napoleon?” The dragon asks dubiously.

“That is – that is not a _relationship_ , dear, and nothing of time or true affection. When I was initially imposed with his affections - “

“Imposed?” The dragon sits up abruptly; his ruff widens dangerously. “Did he do something you did not want?”

Laurence winces. A flush rises to his neck. “My dear, no, I was quite willing – that is - “ Laurence pauses miserably to unravel his neckcloth, tugging futilely at the fabric as though it might loosen enough to release some of his embarrassment. “...Perhaps I should say rather that it was unexpected. And I should not have permitted anything; he is, of course, an enemy, and nothing will come of it.”

Temeraire eyes him critically. But his concerns do not seem to align with those of Laurence. “If you are not making eggs, and not trying to marry like humans do, then I am still very confused about what you _are_ doing.”

“We are – we did - it was pleasant,” says Laurence desperately. “Did you not enjoy your acts with the dragons at Pen Y Fan?”

“Oh, _that,”_ says Temeraire, brightening. “I suppose it would be more like me and Mei, however, even if you are not making eggs.” Laurence chooses not to follow this train of thought. “I thought you had the Admiral for that, but if your human kissing leads to such pleasant things I think I understand after all.”

Laurence sighs with relief. “I am quite glad, my dear.”

There is a long pause. Laurence finally begins to relax, glad that Temeraire's insatiable questions seem, finally, to have ended.

“...Laurence,” says the dragon finally. “I suppose you have not seen her in so very long, but if the acts are related...” Laurence feels a rising sense of dread. “...is Napoleon a better kisser than Admiral Roland?”

* * *

 

 **1812, Maloyaroslavets** , **Russia**

Napoleon has retreated from Moscow and the Russians have followed. Battle will be upon them within an hour. “You and Temeraire must be cautious,” Tharkay says. “Lien may not be present, but I am sure Napoleon will want to take you prisoner if he knows you are here.”

“...Yes,” says Laurence a bit too wistfully. “I am sure he will.”

Tharkay looks at him sharply. Laurence hopes his face is not red.

And, somewhere nearby, Granby starts to laugh.

 


End file.
